


Surveillance

by Kantayra



Category: Alias
Genre: F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-02
Updated: 2005-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:03:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kantayra/pseuds/Kantayra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sydney is assigned to do surveillance on Sark and finds the experience more enjoyable than she would've expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One telemarketer was traumatized, but not harmed, in the writing of this fic...

**Observation Log, Day Four of Surveillance on 129 Lansing Drive:**

 **4:15 AM:** Despite repeated protests that Subject would recognize Observer in a heartbeat were Observer spotted, CIA still insists on choice of current Observer. Made many cogent arguments as to why the FBI should use their own damn agents and stop borrowing CIA resources. Also made several dozen suggestions for other, more appropriate CIA observers. When told that Subject’s tendency to escape retrieval teams necessitated a skilled field-rate agent with an in-depth knowledge of Subject’s psyche, made several dozen obscene remarks as well. May receive unofficial reprimand. Interagency Cooperation: 1; Sydney Bristow: 0. Jackasses.

 **4:17 AM:** Note to self to edit log after observation is complete to eliminate further obscene remarks that may result in future reprimand.

 **4:30 AM:** Subject is asleep. Observer praises coffee as divinity.

 **4:41 AM:** Subject still asleep.

 **4:50 AM:** Subject still asleep. Subject doesn’t even snore to afford Observer opportunity to taunt Subject about snoring habits at a later date.

 **5:01 AM:** Subject rolls over in bed but remains asleep. Observer would suspect Subject of intentionally sleeping in to annoy her, were Observer not sympathetic to the fact that _no one_ should be up at this godawful hour of the morning.

 **5:17 AM:** Subject gets out of bed. Subject actually makes bed _before_ going into the bathroom. Observer suspects Subject of being overly anal.

 **5:19 AM:** Subject relieves self. Subject actually flushes, puts down toilet seat, and washes hands. Were Subject not sociopathic mass-murderer, Subject would be excellent catch.

 **5:20 AM:** Subject brushes teeth.

 **5:21 AM:** Subject shaves. Observer is already gripped with fascination at this exciting log. Observer notes to self to edit log for sarcasm, as well.

 **5:24 AM:** Subject is spending inordinate amount of time looking at self in mirror. Vain bastard.

 **5:27 AM:** Subject does 500 sit-ups and 500 push-ups. Observer is mildly impressed. Subject actually _owns_ sweats. Observer loses $20 bet with Agent Weiss that Subject does not own any casual clothing.

 **5:34 AM:** Subject goes for run. Observer becomes unnerved how frighteningly similar Subject’s morning routine is to her own. Observer rationalizes this as a ‘spy thing’. Observer is grateful for surveillance van since Subject has longer legs.

 **5:40 AM:** Subject begins mile two. Observer begins to feel somewhat leaden from eating that box of donuts while waiting for Subject to wake up this morning.

 **6:04 AM:** Subject finishes run. Bastard ran for 30 minutes to the exact _second_. Subject retrieves newspaper. Damn it. Ground Team didn’t spot that. Observer contacts Ground Team to move in and check newspaper for covert communications.

 **6:06 AM:** Subject leaves newspaper on kitchen table.

 **6:09 AM:** Subject returns to bedroom and offers Observer unintended striptease. Observer has common courtesy Subject would _not_ have were positions reversed and looks away. Subject enters shower.

 **6:10 AM:** Ground Team mobilized. Honeycutt, Badger, and Tambourine enter through back door. Badger covers bedroom door, while Honeycutt and Tambourine replace newspaper with identical copy purchased from corner newsstand.

 **6:13 AM:** Ground Team exits residence, mission accomplished. Tambourine delivers more donuts, also purchased from aforementioned newsstand, to Observer. Observer inquires as to Tambourine’s code-name; Tambourine flees after vague prevarication.

 **6:15 AM:** Subject still in shower.

 **6:20 AM:** Subject _still_ in shower.

 **6:25 AM:** Observer begins making bets with Ground Team how long Subject can possibly stay in shower.

 **6:30 AM:** Consultation with Ground Team has led Observer to inevitable conclusion that no man in the history of the world has ever spent 20 minutes in the shower. Observer debates odds that Subject turned shower on and somehow escaped residence without Observer’s notice. Observer oddly hesitant to turn on shower camera to check.

 **6:32 AM:** Observer turns on shower camera. Apparently Subject really _does_ take that long to shower. Subject lathers hair. Subject uses expensive French shampoo. Observer realizes that this is why Subject always smells so good. Observer also notes that Subject has a nice butt.

 **6:33 AM:** Oh, _wow_! Er…Subject turns in shower. Subject’s butt isn’t the only thing that’s nice…

 **6:35 AM:** Subject finally exits shower. Observer feels strange sense of loss when Subject wraps towel around waist. Subject combs hair.

 **6:42 AM:** Subject _still_ styling hair. Observer always knew it couldn’t look that good naturally.

 **6:45 AM:** Subject returns to bedroom. Subject drops towel. Observer is appreciative. Subject dresses in black fatigues. Observer feels oddly disappointed, but is still appreciative.

 **6:53 AM:** Subject returns to kitchen and prepares breakfast. Sausages look surprisingly good, given that Observer has already eaten four donuts today. Subject appears unaware of newspaper switch.

 **7:02 AM:** Observer confirms rumor that Subject is, in fact, an alien killing robot when Subject doesn’t drink coffee. Observer now owes Marshall $10. Subject eats breakfast and reads newspaper.

 **7:16 AM:** Subject finishes reading newspaper. Subject’s speed-reading of newspaper further confirms alien killing robot theory. Observer amused that Subject reads comics section, as well.

 **7:18 AM:** Subject cleans up kitchen, including washing all dishes from breakfast. Observer’s suspicions that Subject is anal are confirmed. Observer wishes she’d made a bet about _that_.

 **7:21 AM:** Subject receives phone-call on ground-line. Phone-tap recording follows:

 **Sark:** “Hello?”  
 **Telemarketer:** “This is Lifeline Insurance, calling to inform you that insurance rates are rising again.”  
 **Sark:** “I—”  
 **Telemarketer:** “In order to receive our premium program, free of all hidden costs, your monthly rate would be only $99.95 for the first month…”  
 **Sark:** “I beg your—”  
 **Telemarketer:** “…and, if you qualify as a gold premium customer, your rates will stay at our low monthly rate until the end of the year. Can I sign you up?”  
 **Sark:** “I regret that it would be imprudent of me to provide you with my name and location at the moment…”  
 **Telemarketer:** “I assure you, our rates are the lowest!”  
 **Sark:** “…Seeing as I’ve just deployed a tactical assault team to your location. The lead sniper informs me that their ETA is less than eight minutes. The teams consists of six men, equipped with military spec assault rifles, in a large blue van. I suggest you vacate the premises before they eliminate your entire office.”  
 **Telemarketer [nervous]:** “…You’re kidding, right?”  
 **Sark:** “Have a nice day.”

Subject hangs up phone and looks smug. Observer feels no particular pity for telemarketer, although largely because Observer is confident Subject had no chance to contact assault team as threatened.

 **7:22 AM:** Ground Team confirms that telemarketing call was authentic and not a covert means of communication. Observer already knew this, having received the same call last week. Observer contemplates just how high rates would be for Subject if Subject were to list actual occupation. Observer eventually finds question moot, and returns to wishing _she’d_ threatened telemarketer in a similar manner.

 **7:24 AM:** Subject is humming to self in unnerving manner. Observer becomes anxious and calls to Remote Ground Team to safeguard offices of Lifeline Insurance offices, just in case.

 **7:31 AM:** Remote Ground Team assures Observer that no hostile action has taken place against Lifeline Insurance offices.

 **7:34 AM:** More bad news. Tambourine returns to inform Observer that nothing out of the ordinary was in Subject’s newspaper. Observer begins to wonder whether Subject actually _is_ involved in Haldek’s arms deal, as opposed to leading FBI on massive wild goose chase.

 **7:45 AM:** Subject opens previously-discovered hidden panel behind living room painting. Subject removes sniper rifle, ammunition, and a .22. Subject proceeds to bedroom and removes custom .38 from holster by bed. Observer would be pleased to note that she just won the $20 back from Agent Weiss – since Subject does, indeed, sleep with a gun – were Observer not concerned for the object of Subject’s actions. Ground Team deployed to follow Subject in shifts.

 **7:52 AM:** Subject exits building and proceeds to underground garage.

 **7:55 AM:** Subject exits garage. Mercedes. Nice. Not that Observer would expect anything less. Observer follows Subject down Lansing Drive. Subject turns right onto Delacruz. Observer continues straight while Badger picks up tail.

 **7:59 AM:** Badger hands tail off to Honeycutt. Subject now on 91. Observer pulls onto 91 two miles ahead of Subject’s current position.

 **8:07 AM:** Honeycutt hands tail off to Tambourine and pulls ahead. Observer drops back behind Tambourine’s position.

 **8:14 AM:** Subject exits onto Route 43. Tambourine hands off tail to Observer and takes next exit. Subject follows Route 43 past airport. Subject has apparently never comprehended term ‘speed limit’.

 **8:22 AM:** Subject turns onto Rural Access Road B. Observer hands over tail to Badger.

 **8:25 AM:** Badger reports that Subject has just entered private shooting range. Entire team breathes collective sigh of relief. Tambourine suggests that hit target may be at range. Relief is short-lived.

 **8:27 AM:** Observer arrives at shooting range. Takes up position in hills to east of outdoor range. Subject spotted on long-distance scope. Subject does, indeed, appear to be engaging in target practice with sniper rifle. In retrospect, Observer realizes that if Subject were actually on assignment, Subject would have brought one of the .45s from the safe and not the .22.

 **8:35 AM:** Subject has damn good aim.

 **8:45 AM:** The target’s dead already! Tambourine alleviates Observer’s frustration by delivering more donuts. Observer begins to wonder whether Tambourine has special donut-sniffing abilities.

 **8:53 AM:** Subject moves up hill for longer-distance target practice. Subject is only about a hundred feet below Observer. Observer would be concerned if Subject were not so intently fixed on assassinating wooden target at far end of range field.

 **8:55 AM:** Subject’s aim still impeccable. Observer begins vain attempts to send psychic messages to Subject to just fucking call Haldek already.

 **8:58 AM:** Observer’s scope, completely of its own accord, lowers to Subject’s butt. Observer can’t be held to blame for staring at Subject’s ass if scope supports have malfunctioned, right?

 **9:00 AM:** Subject tires of sniper practice and returns to building. Observer returns to van and activates CIA patch into range security cameras inserted by Honeycutt when Subject was busy sniping-for-fun. Observer reflects that Subject has sick mind. Subject pulls out small .22 and begins target practice. Aww. It’s kind of cute. Subject obviously feels no need to overcompensate with large gun. Observer recalls glimpse of Subject in shower and confirms that Subject has _no_ need to compensate.

 **9:17 AM:** Subject switches over to .38. Subject looks less cute now, and more psychotic. Well, except for the butt. The butt remains cute.

 **9:25 AM:** Subject finishes annihilating target. Nice spread. Subject leaves shooting range. Observer uses psychic powers and…yes! Is right! Subject spent exactly half an hour again! Observer wonders if, perhaps, it would be more efficient to set watch by Subject’s actions. Anal bastard.

 **9:32 AM:** Subject on road again. Due to Observer’s van’s conspicuousness, Observer does not join in tail. Observer presumes Subject is heading home because Subject left all materials for cleaning guns at home and Subject appears to be a neat freak.

 **9:58 AM:** Observer arrives at surveillance point once again. Contact with Ground Team confirms that Subject is returning home.

 **10:01 AM:** Subject arrives home from fun morning of practicing murdering skills. Observer decides Subject needs social life, opens latest box of donuts from Tambourine, and settles in for an afternoon of more attempts at telepathic communications to, please, let this assignment just be _over_ already.


	2. Chapter 2

**10:04 AM:** Cha-ching! Observer’s $20 bet with Tambourine that Subject would instantly clean guns upon returning home from shooting range has paid off. Observer reflects that, for an internationally wanted terrorist and professional assassin, Subject actually leads a pretty boring life.

 **10:09 AM:** Subject now disassembling guns and oiling them.

 **10:14 AM:** Subject seems overly fond of the .38. Subject appears to be – ahem – _caressing_ it in a manner that…er…mmm…

 **10:15 AM:** Observer’s chair suddenly becomes uncomfortable and Observer feels the need to readjust her position several times.

 **10:23 AM:** Subject finally puts the guns away. Thank god. The .38 goes back to Subject’s bed. Given Subject’s recently display, Observer can’t help but wonder if there’s more than one reason Subject sleeps with that gun. Sadly, no one but the tape-recorder is present to hear Observer’s witty comments on the subject.

 **10:28 AM:** Subject undresses. Slowly. Observer watches with interest as Subject peels off black shirt. After all, studying the enemy is vital to success in future battles. Really. For example, the movement of Subject’s ass while he removes his pants could provide cues to anticipate Subject’s moves in hand-to-hand combat. Watching Subject strip is also vital for providing the CIA with useful intel. Observer now able to add important information to Subject’s file that Subject dresses to the left. Such useful information will provide field-agents better knowledge of where to aim kicks and have nothing to do with Observer’s sudden and baffling fascination with the bulge in Subject’s boxers. Really. The fact that Subject’s ass is quite bitable is also useful intel, Observer decides.

 **10:29 AM:** Observer embarrassed to admit that she became distracted with thoughts of how knowledge of bitability of Subject’s ass could be used in hand-to-hand combat.

 **10:31 AM:** Subject dresses again. Khakis and a white button-up. Observer finds it strangely reassuring that Subject doesn’t wear $1000 suits when at home alone. Subject chooses not to button shirt and roll up sleeves, undoubtedly because day is becoming quite warm. Observer has no objections.

 **10:36 AM:** Subject returns to kitchen and… Observer suffers fatal heart attack. Observer concludes world is ending. Because – gasp! – Subject actually takes out his own trash! Observer realizes that, somewhere in the back of her mind, she had imagined Subject with series of little assassin lackeys who ran around and waited on him hand in foot. In sillier moods, Observer would imagine Subject reclining on couch, having grapes fed to him and being fanned with ostrich plumes.

 **10:37 AM:** Observer is disturbed to note that, after shower viewing this morning, that formerly humorous image now causes her to squirm. Observer suspects she’s in need of therapy. Observer concludes it’s all Subject’s fault. As usual.

 **10:38 AM:** Subject crinkles up nose when he throws trash in bin. It would almost be cute, except for fact that Subject has 9mm in the waistband of his pants.

 **10:40 AM:** Subject returns to residence and washes hands excessively in kitchen sink. Poor baby. Did the filth particles sully your precious trigger finger?

 **10:45 AM:** Subject returns to living room and grabs book from bookshelf. Machiavelli, in Italian. Subject’s choice of reading is almost too cliché. Subject stops by refrigerator on way to couch and pulls out… Oh god… I… That’s just… Subject is actually eating grapes! Observer is amused beyond words.

 **10:48 AM:** Subject lounges on white leather couch, eats grapes, and reads Machiavelli. Observer reflects that if she had a camera, this picture could appear under the heading ‘Sark’ in a dictionary entry. Well, if there was a bloody corpse off to one side, at least.

 **10:51 AM:** Subject’s Italian reading proficiency seems to be pretty good. Although Observer is relieved that Subject is unable to speed-read Italian as he did English this morning. Subject is also repeatedly checking watch. Rolex, of course. Observer’s hopes rise that Subject might actually be contacted by Haldek so that this farce can end.

 **10:53 AM:** Subject checks watch again. Subject closes book and lies back on couch. Subject appears to be thinking. Observer notices that Subject is now barefoot. While rest of Subject appears to be calm, Subject’s toes are kneading the leather impatiently. Observer pleased to note that she’s discovered that sole sign of Subject’s weakness is his toes.

 **10:56 AM:** Observer amuses herself with thoughts to forcing Subject to remove shoes in interrogation as a form of truth test.

 **10:58 AM:** Observer disturbed when Subject’s toes look strangely in need of nibbling for a moment. Observer blames this irrational thought on too many donuts and coffee and not enough sleep.

 **11:00 AM:** Subject’s cell-phone rings. Caller speaks in German. Conversation transcript, translated into English, follows:

 **Unknown Woman:** “So nice to speak with you again.”  
 **Sark:** “How’s the weather in Minsk?”  
 **U.W.:** “Quite pleasant this time of year.”  
 **Sark:** “No difficulties with the local authorities, I trust?”  
 **U.W.:** “They’re nothing more than an inconvenience. And is all well with you?”  
 **Sark:** “As well as can be expected.”  
 **U.W.:** “You’ve been rather scarce of late.”  
 **Sark:** “I have my reasons.”  
 **U.W. [laughs]:** “You always do. You wouldn’t be half as entertaining without them.”  
 **Sark:** “So glad you approve.”  
 **U.W.:** “We’re approaching our time-limit.”  
 **Sark:** “Next week, then.”  
 **U.W.:** “Much love.”

Unknown Woman hangs up phone. Subject hangs up phone and checks watch again. Damn it. They timed it so that the tracers on Subject’s phone wouldn’t have time to locate incoming call. Bastards. And what was that anyway? Some kind of code? I mean, who on earth would call Sark up to talk about the weather? And why on earth would he bother to give someone like _her_ the time of day? And ‘much love’? Who ends conversations like that? Especially with _Sark_. Unknown Woman is probably some cheap little criminal floozy and is obviously not worth any further thought. Bitch.

 **11:10 AM:** Subject receives _another_ call on cell-phone. It better not be ‘Hello, I’m a German Slut’ again… Oh joy. This one’s _Swedish_. Conversation translated from Swedish below:

 **Unknown Woman #2:** “It’s been too long, dear. Where have you been?”  
 **Sark:** “Business matters kept me preoccupied.”  
 **U.W.2:** “We’ve missed you on The Circuit.”  
 **Sark [smugly]:** “Have you?”  
 **U.W.2:** “We ran through Russian dialects last week. It just wasn’t the same without you.”  
 **Sark:** “We’ll have to do it again soon, then.”  
 **U.W.2:** “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”  
 **Sark:** “Neither would I.”  
 **U.W.2:** “Your accent is really exquisite, you know. I’d think you were a native.”  
 **Sark:** “Your inflection has improved markedly since we last toured Europe.”  
 **U.W.2 [laughs]:** “You always were such a flatterer.”  
 **Sark:** “An objection or an observation?”  
 **U.W.2:** “A bit of both.”  
 **Sark:** “We’d better break for phone-taps.”  
 **U.W.2:** “It’s always such a shame to hang up on you. Kisses.”  
 **Sark:** “Kisses.”

 _Kisses_? What is this? Sark’s private pimp line? And who on earth would fall for that cheap, so-called ‘flirting’, anyway? Smug bastard smirking to himself in his expensive house, on his expensive sofa, all half-clothed with ingenues from all over the world calling him. Ugh. Why did I take this stupid assignment again? Oh right, because the damn CIA insists I have to watch his insufferable ass. Maybe it’s time I threatened to quit…

 **11:20 AM:** Oh god, no. _Another_ phone-call. What are you this time? Russian ice-princess? Spanish dancer? French sophisticate? Or…OK, a man. Er…Subject receives phone-call on cell-phone from Unknown Man. Subject and Unknown Man converse in Dutch. Conversation transcribed and translated below:

 **Sark:** “I trust you’re having a pleasant evening.”  
 **U.M.:** “Quite suburb. Yourself?”  
 **Sark:** “A rare day off.”  
 **U.M.:** “Ah. I had wondered that you’d made it back to The Circuit this week.”  
 **Sark:** “I have missed quite a few sessions lately, haven’t I?”  
 **U.M.:** “We had Nikolai to fill your place, so it all worked out well.”  
 **Sark:** “Nikolai’s back in the field again now?”  
 **U.M.:** “He went on assignment last Tuesday, I believe.”  
 **Sark:** “Hmm. I’ll have to speak with him next week, then.”  
 **U.M.:** “Good luck with that. He’s nearly as elusive as you are.”  
 **Sark:** “Quite. Time.”  
 **U.M.:** “Time.”  
 **Sark:** “Good-bye.”  
 **U.M.:** “Good-bye.”

Subject hangs up. Observer becomes incredibly confused about what’s going on. Subject has now had three phone conversations, all in different languages, with no remarkable content. And what is this ‘Circuit’ everyone keeps talking about? Observer calls in CIA to inquire about same.

 **11:30 AM:** OK, there’s a pattern. One call every ten minutes. This one is another man, in English this time. Subject affects Irish accent throughout call. Subject’s Irish accent is pretty cute. Conversation is recorded but not transcribed, because conversation is as inane as all others before it. Something very odd is definitely going on…

 **11:35 AM:** Observer gets call back from CIA. Circuit is, apparently, a training organization for assassins, thieves, and independent enemy agents. Ah, pointless conversations begin to make sense. Subject is undoubtedly practicing foreign languages. Although Subject’s first two choices of conversation partners leave much to be desired.

 **11:40 AM:** Subject gets another call. Male, Flemish. Conversation is mundane and also untranscribed and translated for that reason. Observer begins to feel somewhat lax for not honing her own language skills in a similar rigorous manner. Observer rationalizes lack of scheduled practice by noting how much lovely _unscheduled_ practice she’s gotten, translating all of Subject’s conversations. Observer also mildly annoyed at time she wasted trying to decode ciphers in Subject’s conversations. So many wasted napkins from corner donut store…

 **11:50 AM:** Subject’s got another floozy on the line. Finnish. Honestly, if these women are supposedly dedicated enemy agents, why exactly do they feel the need to giggle so much at Subject’s blatantly unfunny comments? Observer concludes they must be thoroughly mediocre spies.

 **11:52 AM:** Observer’s mood is brightened when Tambourine arrives, bearing pizza. Observer’s mood is also brightened because Subject rolled eyes after last overly-flirtatious phone-call. Observer always knew Subject had better taste than that. Not that Observer cares. At all.

 **12:00 PM:** Subject gets _another_ phone-call. Who needs a life when you’ve got evil spy cohorts? _Another_ woman? What, do they all flock to him or something? Actually, knowing Subject’s overly-inflated ego, he probably encourages them to. One who think these women would have common sense to realize that Subject’s just preening like a vain peacock for their benefit. Enemy agents’ instincts in both espionage and psychology are obviously inferior to Observer’s. Observer is content in this observation. Observer then realizes that enemy agents probably didn’t spend all day sitting in a van and eating pizza and donuts. Observer feels sudden, nearly-urgent urge to exercise off excess junk food.

 **12:01 PM:** Subject hangs up on Polish ditz and gets up off of couch. Apparently, today’s game of Musical Languages is over. Observer sits back contentedly to spend more alone time with Subject’s butt. Said butt is looking quite nice as Subject digs through kitchen cabinets.

 **12:04 PM:** Subject begins making lunch. Soup and sandwiches. How surprisingly normal. Observer keeps one eye on surveillance camera in kitchen while reviewing earlier tapes of Subject undressing, in case Observer missed any vital intel during that time.

 **12:11 PM:** Subject eats lunch and continues to read Machiavelli. Observer reflects that shower tapes from this morning might also contain important, previously-missed intel.

 **12:15 PM:** Observer turns off shower tapes when Observer realizes that Subject is making little “mmm” noises while Subject eats soup. Apparently, Subject enjoys soup excessively. Observer closes eyes and listens to “mmm” noises. Observer finds experience strangely satisfying. Even more so because Observer is willing to bet Subject has never left himself open enough to make similar noises in German, Swedish, Finnish, or Dutch hussy’s presence.

 **12:26 PM:** Subject finishes eating and cleans kitchen yet again. Subject does dishes. Subject is clearly a tight-ass. Subject also clearly _has_ a tight-ass.

 **12:29 PM:** Subject returns to living room and puts away Machiavelli. Subject retrieves copy of Japanese Journal of Archaeology and returns to couch to read. Subject’s toes are playing with the leather again in an endearing manner.

 **12:30 PM:** Scratch that. Subject’s toes are _not_ endearing. _Nothing_ about Subject is endearing in any way. Subject is sociopathic rat-bastard and should – and would – be rotting in prison right now, except CIA and FBI need intel on location of Haldek’s arms trade.

 **12:45 PM:** Subject has put down journal and appears to be taking nap on the couch. Observer reviews surveillance log up until this point and is somewhat unnerved how much Subject’s ass is mentioned. Observer is obviously going crazy from the heat. Observer resolves never to look at Subject’s ass again and makes devout promise to be distant and dispassionate Observer from here on in.

 **12:52 PM:** Observer remains firm in her resolve, even though Subject has rolled onto his stomach on couch, offering excellent view of his butt to Observer. But Observer isn’t interested in the slightest. Nope, not one bit.

 **12:55 PM:** Subject still sleeping. Observer is entirely uninterested in fact that Subject’s butt is still nicely on display. Observer runs through surveillance report of Ground Team, reviewing Ground Team’s initial entry into Subject’s residence three days prior.

 **1:04 PM:** Wait a minute… Japanese Journal of Archaeology isn’t on manifest from Subject’s bookshelves. Observer checks all incoming objects from the past three days. Damn, it isn’t on there, either…

 **1:07 PM:** Consultation with Ground Team has led Observer to conclusion that somehow that journal must’ve entered Subject’s apartment while Ground team was tracking Subject. Journal may contain intel. Only way to obtain this intel is to go in and retrieve journal. Observer, despite better judgement, insists that she is only one qualified for this task. After all, Subject has tendency to shoot off guns instantly where strangers are concerned, whereas in Observer’s case Subject merely shoots off mouth. Observer not quite sure which is worse.

 **1:10 PM:** Reluctantly, Observer resigns self to fact that she’s going in. Tambourine remains in surveillance van, with the leftover pizza, while Observer prepares to enter residence. Log will resume after Observer’s return…


	3. Chapter 3

**1:12 PM:** Is this thing on? Hello? Yes? Uh…yeah. So this is, uh, Tambourine. I’m watching the camera for – oh yeah, there she is. Observer just entered Subject’s residence. Heh. You’d think she was walking on eggshells or something. OK, she’s spotted Subject. And she’s going in with the tranq, and…

Hahahahahahahaha!

OK, no, seriously. It’s funny, but…uh, maybe I should call in for back up. Or…yeah. Although expression on Observer’s face is _priceless_. CIA super-spy, my ass. Better call to see if she wants help. Hang on a sec…

***

Sydney took a deep breath and slipped through the front door, closing it quietly behind her. The inside of Sark’s house was almost deathly quiet. The steady tick-tock of the clock at the end of the hall created an unnerving rhythm to her steps, and she had to take a deep breath to settle herself.

She hadn’t felt this nervous about a mission in quite some time, but then she hadn’t allowed herself into a situation like this one before. All her previous encounters with Sark had been colored by her intense hatred for him. But this past day had made him seem more _human_ than she could ever have imagined. There was a sort of intimacy to watching another person’s daily actions, and even while his silent run through his day highlighted all the little things about him that drove her insane, it also made her feel a closeness and warmness towards his idiosyncrasies that she could never have anticipated.

Oh, yeah, this assignment was _definitely_ driving her insane.

 _Just close your eyes and think of Vaughn_ , she recited mentally, her mantra in such situations. Feeling fortified once again, she crept down the hall stealthily, moving carefully so that the soles of her shoes made no sound on the cool tile.

Even though she’d just seen him in the living room all of five minutes before, she still froze at the sight of him sprawled over the couch. Somehow, this was _different_ without the distance of the camera between them. From this angle, only the top of his head, one outflung arm, and his toes were visible against the pallor of the soft leather. Carefully, she approached the back of the couch, sedative in hand. She trusted Sark to stay asleep through this about as much as she trusted a cat with catnip.

He didn’t stir as she reached the back of the sofa, still lying on his stomach. It gave her a nice view of the backside she was pointedly avoiding. It also gave her a nice view of the back of his neck, the perfect place to inject the tranquilizer without him noticing the mark. With a deep breath, she leaned in, dart at the ready…

He started to turn over right as she struck. The good news was that the dart hit its target and she succeeded in knocking him out cold for the next fifteen minutes; the bad news was that his sudden movement had caught her in the arm while she was off balance. As a result, she fell forward onto the couch, her arm caught between his body and the couch back.

 _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck…_

“Smooth, Observer.” Tambourine’s voice sounded overly-amused over her comm. “You need an extraction team?”

Sydney winced. He had a point: That definitely hadn’t been her finest moment. “Negative.” She tried wiggling her arm a bit to try to slip it out from under Sark’s back. “If I can just get him to flip over…”

She dropped the now-empty tranquilizer dart onto the table beside the journal she needed to retrieve and pulled up on Sark’s shoulder with her free arm. He mumbled something in his sleep, and she swore inwardly at how awkward the angle was. She obviously wasn’t going to get the leverage she needed in this position.

“You’re _sure_ you don’t need help?” Tambourine was so obviously laughing at her now, it wasn’t even funny.

Sydney scowled in the direction of the concealed camera in the rod of the window blind. “Oh, shut up,” she grumbled sullenly. She sighed as she considered her situation. “OK, I think I’m going to have to…” She gulped and carefully crawled over the couch back, setting herself down tentatively on the couch over Sark’s body. Straddling an unconscious Sark in his living room was definitely _not_ how she’d wanted to spend her weekend. “They’d better give me triple overtime for this,” she muttered into her comm.

“But just think of it,” Tambourine taunted her good-naturedly, “on what other assignment do you get to get up-close and personal with a terrorist’s butt?”

Sydney had been about to yank her arm out from under Sark, but that comment caused her to freeze in horror. “Have you been listening to my tapes?” she demanded, mortified.

“You ate all the left-over pizza,” he retorted sulkily before his voice turned wicked again. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone’s got the hots for—”

“I do _not_ …” she began vehemently.

Of course, she didn’t get a chance to describe at length, with footnotes and diagrams, how very much she did _not_ want Sark or his evil ass. Because, even completely unconscious, Sark had to screw up her life. It was a rule or something.

Sydney let out an undignified little yelp of surprise when Sark abruptly rolled over and somehow, despite the merciless logic of the universe itself, when they were done flailing about, she ended up pressed into the couch, his body on top of hers, and his face nuzzled against the curve of her throat. Oh yeah, someone up there was enjoying making her life a living hell.

Tambourine let out a little snort over his comm. “I wouldn’t have guessed that move was even physically _possible_.” She could hear him snacking on the Cheetos she’d bought with her own money that morning. “So, can I have you extracted now?”

“No, I’m fine,” she practically squeaked. First of all, there was no way she would _ever_ live it down if the FBI had to retrieve her from…er, _under_ Sark. And second… Her face turned red when she felt something hard shift against her inner thigh. Apparently, unconscious Sark was enjoying his dreams. Bastard.

“You look stuck.” Tambourine was still laughing. OK, so she wouldn’t live this down even if she _did_ manage to get herself out of this mess all on her own. But Sydney had already made her choice, and she was just stubborn enough to stick to it.

“I know how to deal with—” She froze when Sark suddenly shifted against her, and her hand which was trapped between their bodies got a good feel that that _definitely_ wasn’t the 9mm in his pocket… _Think of Vaughn, think of Vaughn, think of Vaughn…_

“Are you saying ‘I think I’m blond’?” Tambourine asked curiously.

“No, I’m just… Just give me a minute to get free.” She squirmed a bit under Sark. If the lips now brushing her throat were any indication, he appreciated the gesture. God, she was so going to kill him for this. Slowly.

“Right, then,” Tambourine agreed cheerfully. “So I’ll just leave you two alone to enjoy your mission.” His snicker was audible even over the comm. “Going radio silent.”

“Wai—” Sydney began, but he was gone. So she did the only thing she could in this situation: She made an obscene gesture in the direction of the security camera.

***

 **1:20 PM:** Heh. Observer sure is taking her sweet time. Hell, this is great. Too bad the guys are busy trying to track down a replacement for that journal. Because… Hee! Aww, man. This should be on the CIA’s Funniest Home Videos or something…

I mean, he’s _humping_ her! Man, is her face red. This is great. Heh, no way is she getting out of this alone. Too priceless.

And the CIA wonders why we always win the Interagency Softball Tournament…

***

Of course, being mad at her not-so-heroic FBI contact was just distracting Sydney from the real problem. The real problem was long and hard and pressed right against the palm of her right hand. It didn’t help that Sark had taken to making little pleasured sounds in his sleep.

 _Oh god, I’m giving Sark a wet dream…_

She hoped to god the surveillance cameras couldn’t show how red her face was. Or the way she was suddenly breathing heavily. Undoubtedly because of the stress. Because there was absolutely _nothing_ else about this situation that excited her. Not at all.

 _Think of Vaughn, think of Vaughn, think of…oh god! Sark!_

A breathy little gasp escaped her lips when Sark’s knee ground up against the junction of her legs. Her teeth caught at her traitorous bottom lip to keep such an infraction from occurring again. There were some involuntary reactions will-power alone wasn’t strong enough to counteract, however, and the throbbing wetness between her legs continued to remind of how incredibly, horribly _wrong_ this situation was and how she had to get out of it as quickly as possible.

 _Compartmentalize_ , she encouraged herself inwardly. _This is just like any other mission. Just take it step by step…_

Well, step one was obviously to get her hand free.

She almost felt guilty. Sark was so obviously enjoying rubbing against her hand in his sleep. And, in some perverse way, she didn’t feel quite so traumatized touching him this way while he slept. Awake and conscious, he was an insufferable, mass-murdering traitor. But asleep, he was just a male body, with the same needs and desires as any other man. And he looked so young in his sleep, innocent almost…

And, god, what the hell was _wrong_ with her that she was feeling sorry for sleeping Sark?

 _OK, compartmentalizing a little too well. New rule: No compartmentalizing will be done of Sark._

Turning back to the task at hand, she began to slowly inch her hand from between them. Sark, naturally, was as difficult as always. Every time she gained a millimeter, he moved with her. And the friction of their bodies, the bare expanse of his chest rubbing against her blouse, the feel of his lips against her throat, the contented little mumbles escaping his mouth… None of it was helping her own predicament.

With a deep breath, Sydney lay back on the couch and considered her situation. Sark’s body settled happily upon hers – a little too happily if certain lower things were any indication. Crap. He was going to come any minute now. On top of her.

She scowled down at him. “I hate you,” she informed him vehemently.

As usual, he didn’t take the hint.

She tried thrashing underneath him, moving in a sudden jerk of energy. Got absolutely nowhere for her troubles. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Sark now had a death-grip on her waist. She’d never really appreciated before how heavy a man’s body could be.

 _The harder I struggle, the more I’m stuck. Figures_ , she thought in frustration.

All right, so the straight out escape plan wasn’t working. That meant it was time to do something drastic, something completely contrary to Sydney’s very nature…something subtle and non-violent. Namely, rather than fighting against the current with each last gasping breath, she was going to go along with it

In the back of her mind, a little voice suggested that the only reason she would even _consider_ such an option in this case was because some part of her wanted this. She promptly ignored it. She was playing along just this once, not completely rewriting her psyche, after all.

So, step one: Get Sark to loosen his grip.

The best way to go about that part seemed to be to relax him. Fortunately, that didn’t seem to be particularly difficult for her at the moment.

Her free hand came up to stroke his back, following the line of his spine until her fingers tangled into his dark blond curls. “That’s a good little sociopath,” she said in a soothing voice.

She felt his tensed muscles relax, his grip loosen, his body turn soft in her arms. Well, all but one thing turned soft. She took in a slow, calming breath through her nose and, instead of trying to squirm her hand away as she had been previously, she stroked him cautiously through his thin khaki pants.

The result was quite possibly the most perfect sound she’d ever heard. Sark groaned, but it was more than just a groan. Somehow, even that inarticulate sound managed to capture the timbre of his accent, silk and sin all in one deliciously dangerous package. It appealed to her higher aesthetic sensibilities and her baser primal urges all at once.

So she stroked him, only half thinking about what she was doing.

The original plan, she supposed, had been to take advantage of the undulations of his body and slip up from under him while he least suspected it. The groan changed everything. Or maybe it had been the sight of his sleeping face. Or the curl of his toes. Or…

***

 **1:25 PM:** Okay, shit. That tranq’s not going to last much longer. Looks like Badger has the replacement journal, though. Although…er…Observer seems to have forgotten she’s on camera. I kind of didn’t need to see that. Not that Observer’s not hot and all, but I like to think of myself as not being a total perv. Really. Looking away now.

Okay, let’s turn the comms back on and see if we can get this mission over with…

***

Sydney’s left hand clutched the back of Sark’s head, while her right continued to move against him. He was jerking erratically against her now, on the verge of climax. And, really, it wasn’t her fault her body had become caught up in his rhythm, rocking lightly as he did. It was just a momentary thing, lulling him into a false sense of security before she made her move. All part of the plan.

Which meant, alas, it was time to get the hell out of here while she still had the presence of mind to do so. There were days when she hated being the good guy.

Her legs were the first to escape. That wasn’t so hard, really. All she’d had to do was inch her own hips towards the edge of the couch, while guiding his to the back with her hand. A little exclamation of triumph escaped her lips when both feet touched the floor once more.

And, without his grinding against her, her body was finally able to cool down. Time to think clearly again. But not too clearly. Because she really didn’t want to process what her right hand and Sark’s crotch were doing to each other at the moment.

Nudging Sark’s head over to her other shoulder wasn’t too difficult. And once she did that, it was simple enough to wiggle her body out from under his weight. He made a grab for her at the last minute, but she fell to the floor with a victorious ‘thump’. Or, it _would_ have been victorious, if her ass didn’t hurt from it. Dammit.

“Very graceful. You must have been a ballerina in a past life,” Tambourine’s sarcastic voice suddenly came over the comm.

“If you don’t—”

“We have a problem,” he cut her off.

“What?” she demanded, still more than annoyed.

“The tranq’s only got a few minutes left, and then…yeah…”

She swore loudly and glanced back up at the couch. Entirely free except for her hand. Exactly where she’d started this mess. Just great.

“I _really_ think I should send Badger in. He’s got the replacement journal, and—”

“Just give me another minute,” she insisted.

“A minute is about all you _have_.”

“I just need to…” She was pretty confident the angle of the camera was such that he couldn’t actually see where her hand was. But if the rest of the Ground Team came in… Well, there was no way in hell of covering up what she was doing.

 _Which is why we don’t give Sark hand-jobs in the first place_ , a snippy part of her butted in.

“There’s, er, another problem,” Tambourine began hesitantly.

 _Just great. Can this day get any worse?_ “Oh?”

“You can’t leave any evidence that you were there.” His voice sounded soft and frightened, like he expected her to explode at him in any minute.

“I didn’t leave anyth—” she began. And then her eyes widened in realization. Oh, yes, this day had just gotten a _lot_ worse. Because she was definitely about to leave something that there was no chance in hell Sark would miss. In his pants. “You can’t be serious?” she whimpered softly.

“You’re _sure_ you don’t want me to send Badger in? Because this _would_ be nice revenge for the time he got me with the paint in the men’s locker-room…”

Revenge sounded nice right about now. As did making this whole damn thing someone else’s responsibility. In fact, she shouldn’t even have been here in the first place. She should be back home, enjoying one of her rare days off, reading a good book, and not paying Sark a second thought. Or even a first thought. She should be comfortably enjoying how very much she despised him and should be content in the knowledge that the only time she’d ever, _ever_ touched him had been to deliver bruises. It was wonderful life she’d live out there, where her hand was nowhere near Sark’s naughty bits. A wonderful, beautiful world, free of the moral quagmire she was stuck in right now…

She took a deep breath. Sydney Bristow may have been a lot of things, but she was _not_ irresponsible. She’d made this mess, and she’d fix it. “I’ll do it.” She inflected the worlds with every bit of reluctance she could manage.

“You sure?” Tambourine sounded appropriately sympathetic.

She gulped, nodded in the direction of the camera, and pulled the napkins leftover from lunch from her pocket. “I hate my life…” she grumbled under her breath, before nudging Sark over onto his side. Of course, he was amenable now. Even drugged, the bastard probably knew what she was stuck doing and wanted to milk her misery…

Evil. That’s what he was. Completely and utterly evil.

Because if he _hadn’t_ been evil, he wouldn’t have looked so gorgeous lying there, still rubbing against her hand.

And he certainly wouldn’t have the world’s loudest zipper on his pants. She flinched as the sound of the metal teeth opening seemed to echo endlessly through the living room.

And he also wouldn’t have such silky boxers that felt so nice against her skin as she slipped carefully inside.

And he wouldn’t have moved just then so that she accidentally rubbed flesh on flesh, despite the care she was trying to take to keep the napkins between them.

And his skin wouldn’t have been warm, and soft and hard all at once, and it wouldn’t have sent little frissions of pleasure down her spine.

And he wouldn’t have moaned as he came, causing her instinctively to glance up at his face, despite her iron resolve not to look at him.

And his face in orgasm wouldn’t have been so perfect, so ecstatic, so youthful and serene and intriguing and irresistible and…

“Observer? You there?” Tambourine’s voice in her earpiece sounded like a gunshot, breaking her out of her very strange trance.

With a sudden start of surprise, she realized she’d been leaning in to him, her eyes transfixed on that gorgeous lopsided mouth. She pulled back, removed the soiled napkins, and zipped him back up.

He flopped back onto his stomach with a blissful smile on his face, looking smug and contented and completely oblivious to the fact that anything amiss had just happened.

She made a face at the napkins and snatched up the journal and the empty tranq dart from the table. “I need the replacement journal. Now.”

“At the door,” Tambourine assured her.

Badger was, indeed, there, and he handed her an identical copy of the journal while she handed him the original. She placed the clean copy on the table and checked her watch. One minute to spare.

 _Ha! Take that, FBI-who-thinks-I-can’t-do-my-job-on-time!_

She turned her victorious smile in the still-sleeping Sark’s direction and sighed. He was shivering now, contented and spent. She bit her lip, feeling a strange sense of fondness in that moment, as if they’d accomplished this mission together, of all absurd things. Her eyes darted to the blanket which had been folded over the couch back before their little tumble had knocked it to the floor. Slowly, she picked it up and moved to set it back where it belonged.

Sark shivered again and made a little “mmm-mmm” sound of complaint.

“I loathe you,” she insisted. And dropped the blanket on him.

“Aww, so sweet,” Tambourine teased.

She turned a wicked little smile to the surveillance camera and then pointedly leaned in and gave Sark’s behind a little good-bye pat – _Ooh…nice and firm…_ – before exiting the apartment. Still with seconds to spare.

 _Damn, am I good._

***

 **1:30 PM:** All right, Observer’s out. Subject’s still sleeping, but the tranq’s got to be wearing off by now. Although who can blame him for being tired out after that?

And now Observer’s going to kill me, isn’t she? Well, it’s been fun…

“How _dare_ you listen to my tapes?”

If these are my last words, I love you Sandra and mom and dad. Heh.


	4. Chapter 4

**1:37 PM:** Tambourine flees observation van for his life. Observer throws now-empty bag of Cheetos after him, just for good measure. Observer checks to make sure Subject’s still sleeping before Observer dashes down to corner store to use bathroom to clean up, er…unwanted biological sample Observer picked up from Subject. Damn. Should’ve made Tambourine stay to watch until I got back.

 **1:46 PM:** Observer returns from world’s longest restroom line at a run. Observer breathes sigh of relief that Subject is still sleeping.

 **1:52 PM:** Observer finds that it somewhat detracts from the seriousness of her last minute escape when Subject doesn’t have the courtesy to wake up as soon as the tranq wears off.

 **1:55 PM:** Subject still asleep. Observer occupies self with reading through journal acquired from Subject’s residence and very firmly _not_ thinking about certain awkward incidents that happened while Observer was within Subject’s residence.

 **2:07 PM:** Dammit. Observer figures out why Subject was reading obscure journal. Dig site in eastern China, Fifteenth Century artifacts, Italian text… God, not again. Why won’t Rambaldi just _die_ already? Or…er, stay dead…

 **2:09 PM:** Observer disturbed to note that she feels less depressed than usual upon hearing of something associated with Rambaldi. Observer even _more_ disturbed to note that the reason for this lack of depression seems to involve fantasies of encountering Subject in the field again. Observer contemplates seeing CIA counselor.

 **2:15 PM:** Subject finally wakes up. Subject has slightly puzzled expression on face. Subject looks around, confused. Observer realizes that she’s making false innocent expression even though Subject can’t see her.

 **2:18 PM:** Subject folds up blanket before he gets up. Of course. Subject still looks puzzled.

 **2:20 PM:** Subject enters bathroom and looks in mirror. Subject looks in trousers. Subject perplexed. Yes, I _did_ clean up your mess for you, you total perv. Ugh. This is _so_ like him. Taking everything he can and giving absolutely nothing back. And do I even care that he was unconscious? Nope, not one bit.

 **2:26 PM:** Subject returns to living room. Subject resumes reading journal. Subject seems unaware that switch has occurred.

 **2:30 PM:** Subject still reading. Apparently, Subject’s Japanese is slower than his Italian. Observer revels in fact that her Japanese is much faster. Badger drops by to collect Subject’s original copy of journal. Apparently, Badger nicked the one currently in Subject’s possession from UCLA research library. Badger insists this is standard procedure for FBI. Observer suddenly realizes why so many necessary books and articles were missing from the research stacks when she was a student and swears vengeance on the FBI.

 **2:31 PM:** …Although Observer concedes that, unless FBI has hundreds of missions at once in this area, FBI cannot possibly be responsible for _all_ the missing books in that library.

 **2:40 PM:** Subject still reading. Like nothing happened. Bastard.

 **2:55 PM:** Subject finishes journal. Subject buttons shirt and puts on shoes. Subject leaves residence. Tail time.

 **2:58 PM:** Subject exits garage. Observer has called reluctant truce with Tambourine and rides in his car, as surveillance van is too conspicuous.

 **3:01 PM:** Subject on 91 again. Badger on trail.

 **3:07 PM:** Subject turns off onto rural road CC4 ½. Observer wasn’t even aware that rural highways could _have_ such obscure names.

 **3:10 PM:** Subject appears to be attempting to break some kind of speed record. Observer grows impatient with Tambourine, who really does drive like an old lady. After Observer points this out, Tambourine makes completely uncalled for remark about how Observer should have hitched a ride with her ‘boyfriend’ then, if Observer objects so strongly to Tambourine’s driving.

 **3:15 PM:** Tambourine and Observer engage in heated debate about whether Subject is actually Observer’s ‘boyfriend’. Tambourine points out that Observer and Subject are currently on third base, albeit Subject is not aware of this fact. Observer points out that her fascination with Subject’s ass in no way reflects any form of affection for Subject. Tambourine is skeptical. Observer insists that any woman would agree that Subject’s ass is worthy of veneration, even if Subject is not. Tambourine still skeptical.

 **3:20 PM:** Subject appears to be attempting to shake tail. Dammit. Observer had thought we were being careful. But Subject is frequently turning onto winding roads in attempt to elude pursuers.

 **3:25 PM:** Observer amends her opinion that Subject is trying to elude tail after brief debate with Tambourine over the topic of ‘joyrides’. According to Tambourine, men enjoy driving fast on twisting roads when women are not present. Observer takes his word on this since, while Subject _is_ taking winding roads, Subject doesn’t appear to be doing much else to avoid tail.

 **3:30 PM:** Subject still driving through countryside at breakneck speed. Tambourine and Observer have brief debate over Observer’s so-called ‘obsession’ with pulling out surveillance log every five minutes to make updates.

 **3:35 PM:** Tambourine and Observer continue debate. Observer makes mental note to reprimand Tambourine for being lax in his duties—

“Hey!”

—And also for listening to Observer’s tapes earlier while she was away.

“I was _bored_!” *Click*

 **3:40 PM:** Subject stops for gas. Tambourine and Observer engage in heated debate over who will continue to drive. Tambourine remains stubborn despite Observer’s logical arguments about how Tambourine still drives like a little old lady.

“You’re _asking_ for—” *Click*

 **3:46 PM:** Ha! Tambourine here. What Observer didn’t _realize_ when she beat me up and stole the wheel—

“I did _not_ —”

This is _my_ log now, remember? I’m trying to make an entry. Ahem. What Observer forgot is that, now that Subject is driving about again, she’s too busy driving herself to make log entries. Which means this log is _mine_.

“You have a death wish, right? You _must_ have a death wish…”

 **3:50 PM:** Subject appears to be headed back home from joyride. Let it be noted that Observer is making little wistful noises and obviously fantasizing about Subject’s ass again. Tambourine is shocked – _shocked_ – that the CIA has such a lax opinion of terrorists. Perhaps, I should put _that_ in my report.

“I was just kidding about—”

Ahem. Did I interrupt you during your log entries?

“Frequently.”

Er, okay, point.

 **4:03 PM:** Subject arrives home. Observer attempts to snatch recorder from Tambourine with unnecessary force and violence, and – Hey! You’ll break it! And…

 _Hiss._

 _Hisssssssssssss._

*Click*

 **4:06 PM:** Observer back in surveillance van with rightful possession of log once more. Observer kicks Tambourine out of van so that she can finally continue log properly. After brief examination, Observer concludes that recorder is undamaged. No thanks to Tambourine. Log hog.

 **4:09 PM:** Subject returns to living room. Subject removes shoes. Observer is happy to see Subject’s toes once more. Subject turns off lights. What, he’s taking _another_ nap? Subject is officially laziest spy in the whole world. Although, in all fairness, the last time _I_ got a day off…er…

 **4:12 PM:** Subject, it seems, is not sleeping. Subject is…oh god, too funny… _meditating_. Because after a hard month of killing people and torturing innocents, Subject thinks he can obtain inner peace. Yeah, right. Observer amuses herself by imagining all the bad karma Subject’s built up over a lifetime coming back to bite him on the ass.

 **4:14 PM:** Although, really, is it fair for that lovely ass to suffer for Subject’s misdeeds? Observer in strangely philosophic mood. Subject still meditating.

 **4:20 PM:** Observer has concluded that whatever god created Subject has a sick sense of humor. Said deity created a perfectly lovely body, ideal for any woman to fantasize about, and then promptly stuck _Sark_ inside of it. Universe is obviously cruel and unfair place. Were universe fair, Observer’s sacrifices would obviously have rewarded her with her own personal masseuse who looks exactly like Subject but without the evil.

 **4:25 PM:** Observer comes up with great metaphysical question: Were Subject only a mere masseuse, would Observer find him half as intriguing? Close examination of pale skin of Subject’s throat, Subject’s closed eyelids, and Subject’s deliciously ruffled hair eventually lead Observer to conclude that Subject would be just as appealing in any occupation. Observer takes this as further sign that the universe is out to get her.

 **4:30 PM:** Subject appears to be making light humming noise. Subject’s throat moves in fascinating manner when Subject does so, Observer notes.

 **4:32 PM:** Subject opens eyes and gets up. Subject still limber after 20 minutes spent in lotus position. Observer takes this as further sign of Subject’s evilness, since no normal person could move so gracefully after such an interval.

 **4:36 PM:** Subject’s doing Tai Chi. Yawn. So stereotypical. Although Subject _does_ move rather nicely. Nice, rolling, flowing movements… Just the perfect hint of danger beneath… Mmm…

 **4:41 PM:** Observer is disturbed to note that she lost almost five minutes reflecting upon Subject’s ability to move in a pleasant manner during the brief encounter between Subject and Observer this afternoon. There’s got to be something in the coffee. It’s all Tambourine’s fault, I’m sure.

 **4:52 PM:** Subject stretching. Observer gets lovely view of Subject’s ass when he bends over to touch his toes. Observer reflects that Subject has quite a feline grace about him. Like he _knows_ he’s the sexiest thing this room will ever see. And like he’ll claw anything foolish enough to come near him, and rip off a few limbs in the process. Observer wonders whether she should be concerned that such a dichotomy is fascinating to her.

 **5:01 PM:** Subject appears to be through with trying to ease his conscience through Oriental art forms. Although Subject’s residence _is_ very feng shui. Heh. Hope that helps with the murderous guilt. Well, actually… No, I don’t. Although point is probably moot since Subject doesn’t seem to _have_ any murderous guilt. Bastard. All smug and content with his hot little ass and his expensive home and women practically falling at his feet, without a care in the world. How unfair is life?

 **5:07 PM:** Subject pours self a glass of wine. Subject lounges on couch with wineglass and watches evening news. Subject has hedonistic sex-god posture down pat. Observer is convinced Subject is intentionally practicing for the sole purpose of inflicting his so-called ‘charisma’ on _her_. Observer is less than amused.

 **5:11 PM:** Subject apparently cannot resist inherent male biological urges and flips through channels impatiently. Subject seems shockingly unconcerned by latest special on Princess Di’s affairs. Given how little attention Subject pays to television, Observer finds it gratuitously unfair that he owns 60-inch flatscreen high-definition television. Concealed behind wooden panels when Subject is not viewing, of course. Must maintain that precious interior design. Grr…

 **5:16 PM:** Subject’s phone rings. Oh joy. Who could it possibly be this ti— _Mom_?

Um…er…conversation transcribed below:

 **Sark:** “I’ve been waiting for your call.”  
 **Derevko:** “You had a chance to look over that journal I sent you, I trust?”  
 **Sark:** “Indeed. The usual procedures?”  
 **Derevko:** “No. Keep this quiet. News hasn’t leaked to the general intelligence community yet.”  
 **Sark:** “Someone hasn’t been doing their homework…”  
 **Derevko:** “You’ll deal with it, then?”  
 **Sark:** “Consider the matter resolved.”  
 **Derevko:** “Beautiful.”  
 **Sark:** “A pity you’re indisposed for the time being. I’d invite you to dinner.”  
 **Derevko:** “We’ll have to meet another time. It’s been far too long.”  
 **Sark:** “My thoughts as well.”  
 **Derevko:** “I’ll leave the matter in your capable hands, then. Don’t disappoint me.”  
 **Sark:** “I know better than that.”  
 **Derevko:** “I should hope you would by now.”

Derevko hangs up. Subject hangs up. Subject watches the muted television screen pensively and sips at his wine. Observer suddenly feels intense pang of jealousy that Subject is so comfortable with Derevko. Not that Observer would ever want to get caught up in Derevko’s schemes again. Absolutely not.

 **5:17 PM:** Observer immediately relays Subject’s conversation with Derevko to CIA and FBI. Ground Team confirms that Derevko’s call was untraceable. Observer not surprised one bit.

 **5:21 PM:** Subject returns to bedroom and changes. Observer amused that Subject changes clothing more in one day than any person she’s ever met. Observer’s amusement fades when she sees Subject’s fine body once more. Dammit. Why must nature be so cruel and so generous all at once?

 **5:28 PM:** Subject in Armani. This is more like Subject Observer knows. Subject leaves apartment.

 **5:32 PM:** Yeah, yeah. We tail Subject. Blah, blah, blah. Subject continues to be completely and utterly useless for intel. Observer considers this all big waste of time. Haldek’s name hasn’t even been _mentioned_ , after all. Well, okay, the tip about Japan was somewhat useful.

 **5:50 PM:** Fuck. Subject pulls up to valet outside most expensive restaurant around. Double fuck. Brief consultation with Tambourine on how we can possibly get in without blowing cover. Quick discussion leads us both to inevitable conclusion that Tambourine would _never_ get past the doorman. Observer is wearing jeans and sweatshirt, so Observer doesn’t meet dress code, either.

 **5:52 PM:** Observer thankfully remembers that her dry-cleaner is in this area. Quick scramble for tickets leaves Observer with short red dress. Not exactly inconspicuous, but it’s the best Observer can do. Observer changes in back seat of Tambourine’s car. Tambourine surprisingly not an ass about entire matter. Observer hooks up remote microphone to wristwatch, so that Observer can continue to relay information to Tambourine while inside.

 **5:54 PM:** Only four minutes pass until Observer follows Subject inside. Damn is Observer good…

 **5:55 PM:** Doorman lets Observer in easily.

 **5:56 PM:** Observer faced with difficulty that she has no reservation. Observer spots aging, over-dressed man with comb-over on opposite side of acacia bush from Subject’s table. Observer sucks it up and takes one for the team, informing waiter she’s part of sleazy comb-over’s party. Going radio silent.

 **5:59 PM:** OK, Tambourine, I’m back. And, ugh, he’s an octopus. Thankfully, he bought the ‘I have to go freshen up’ excuse. So, here’s what I need you to do. The guy’s name is Harold Whitcomb. He works at Howard, Tate,  & Carver. I need you to dig up everything you can on him – preferably, his wife, since he’s wearing a wedding band – and get them to call him away from the table. I’ve got a good bead on Subject and he can’t see me, but I can’t do my job with octopus all over me. In fact, get the wife. Make him squirm.

OK, I’d better head back now…

 **6:04 PM:** Nice work, Tambourine. You should’ve seen how white his face went when he got that call. And not a moment too soon, either. I was just getting the sleazy motel spiel. Blech. All right, so I have the table to myself and managed to plant a bug in the, er, plant between Subject’s table and mine. He’s just ordered, so it looks like he’ll be here for a while. Veal Parmesan, too. Mmm…am I hungry…

“Tambourine to Observer: You want to tick off the brass?”

You’re thinking I should…?

“It’s FBI deductible. Necessary cost of field work.”

You’re evil.

“Oh yeah, baby.”

 **6:08 PM:** Observer has ordered from exorbitantly expensive menu, all on FBI’s bill. Observer considers this fitting repayment for FBI forcing Observer into this assignment in the first place. Besides, Observer hasn’t had lobster in what seems like forever. Subject is drinking wine once more. Lush.

 **6:14 PM:** Subject’s food arrives. Damn, does that smell good. Subject appears to be eating alone. Observer is amused that the great-and-fabulous Sark couldn’t pick up a dinner date for the evening.

 **6:20 PM:** Observer’s food arrives. Yum.

 **6:25 PM:** Hang on. Someone’s talking to Subject. I’m relaying recording of bug while I finish dinner:

 **Unknown Woman:** “Is this seat taken?”  
 **Sark:** “It seems to be now.”

Wait. What the hell? Some floozy is trying to _pick him up_? God, do women have no sense these days?

 **U.W.:** “You don’t seem the type to eat alone.”  
 **Sark:** “And how exactly do you know what type I am?”  
 **U.W.:** “Call it women’s intuition.”

Oh, _god_. She _is_ flirting with him. And he’s just being all coy and going along with it! Bastard. Hang on, Tambourine. I’m leaving the recording on, but I’ve got to get a closer look.

“Checking out the competition?”

Don’t you even start with me…

 **Sark:** “So what brings you here on this lovely night?”  
 **U.W.:** “Fine cuisine. Even finer company.”  
 **Sark:** “Finer than your husband’s, in any case.”  
 **U.W.:** “Ah, you noticed the ring.”  
 **Sark:** “It’s rather difficult not to.”  
 **U.W.:** “Garish thing, isn’t it? That’s Mike for you, though. All bluster and no class. You’d be surprised how many men can ignore such an obvious thing as a wedding ring.”  
 **Sark:** “Indeed?”  
 **U.W.:** “But then you seem more observant than most.”  
 **Sark:** “Flattery will get you a drink.”  
 **U.W.:** “Mmm… Classy.”  
 **Sark:** “I consider myself something of a connoisseur.”  
 **U.W.:** “I’ll bet. It doesn’t bother you, then?”  
 **Sark:** “Hmm?”  
 **U.W.:** “The husband?”  
 **Sark:** “I’ve done far worse in my days.”  
 **U.W.:** “Mmm… I hoped you would say that.”  
 **Sark:** “I even… Did you hear something?”  
 **U.W.:** “Huh? What?”  
 **Sark:** “There was… Never mind.”  
 **U.W.:** “So, anyway, you were saying?”

 **6:37 PM:** Fuck. OK, note for future surveillance: Nearly knocking a potted plant over on Subject’s head is _not_ the best way to avoid attention.

“Heh. So how’d she look?”

Ugh. Petite. Blonde. Pretty. A bit gaudy, though.

“If it makes you feel any better, she really does have an obnoxious twang to her voice.”

Thanks. Er…I mean, hell like I care. He can screw the entire room, for all I care.

“You’re _in_ the entire room, of course.”

Oh, shut up and let me eat in peace. Here, you can listen to more pedantic flirting in the meantime:

 **U.W.:** “You have the most gorgeous accent I’ve ever heard. You’re from England?”  
 **Sark:** “Close enough.”  
 **U.W.:** “Ooh, mysterious. I love a man of mystery.”  
 **Sark:** “I’d imagine you love many men.”  
 **U.W.:** “Huh?”  
 **Sark:** “Attracting them with your beauty and wealth.”  
 **U.W.:** “Oh. Yeah…”

Hee! He just insulted her! And she didn’t even _realize_ it. OK, so he’s just playing with her. He’s still a bastard, though. But at least he’s a bastard with _some_ taste. Although I’m not really sure I want to listen to this. I mean, it’s going to be _brutal_ …

 **U.W.:** “So, does my man of mystery have a name?”  
 **Sark:** “Most people have names. I’m no exception.”  
 **U.W.:** “Can I guess what it is?”  
 **Sark:** “Unlikely.”

OK, the microphone just _barely_ picked up that mumble. Ten bucks says our flirt didn’t hear it.

“You’re on.”

 **U.W.:** “Is it…Charles?”

You owe me.

“Dammit.”

 **Sark:** “No.”  
 **U.W.:** “John?”  
 **Sark:** “Daniel.”

Heh. Now he’s lying to her. Oh, joy…

 **U.W.:** “Nice name. You want to guess mine?”  
 **Sark:** “It seems a lengthy waste of time.”  
 **U.W.:** “Er…”

Hey, at least I’m not the only one bored by this conversation. Just dump her on her ass, already!

 **U.W.:** “It’s Charlene.”  
 **Sark:** “Fascinating.”  
 **U.W.:** “So…Daniel. What were your plans after dinner?”  
 **Sark:** “I had rather hoped to spend the evening with the woman of my dreams, actually.”  
 **U.W.:** “Oh…wow…”  
 **Sark:** “Unfortunately – or, rather, fortunately in my case – you are not she.”  
 **U.W.:** “Huh? Hey!”  
 **Sark:** “If you’ll excuse me, I _was_ enjoying my meal.”  
 **U.W.:** “You little… _bastard_!”

I have to agree with you there. OK, Charlene’s stalking away in disgust. Ugh. Subject just raised his wineglass to her, all haughty and better-than-thou. He really is disgusting, you know.

“Except for the butt.”

Except for the butt.

 **6:58 PM:** Subject orders dessert. Strawberry mousse, yum. I think I’m getting the same. Charlene’s still throwing dirty looks Subject’s way. Although she seems to have tackled some guy in a business suit at the bar. Better luck there. He seems less out of her league.

 **7:06 PM:** Mousse is, indeed, delicious. Observer begins to worry that she’s putting on weight after all the eating on this assignment.

 **7:19 PM:** Subject asks for bill. So does Observer. Bill induces rather large coughing fit in Observer. Well, if nothing else, this will teach the FBI to never force me on a mission again…

 **7:23 PM:** Subject exits restaurant. Observer follows. Subject gets his car from valet. Observer returns to Tambourine’s car. Waiting commences.

 **7:25 PM:** Subject heads home, we follow, blah blah blah. Honeycutt gets a _flat_ of all things. More signs that the surveillance gods are working against us.

 **7:40 PM:** Subject arrives home. Observer returns to surveillance van. Subject doesn’t turn on lights and proceeds directly to bedroom. Subject turns on bedroom lights. Subject begins undressing. Subject is going to bed _already_? Subject is clearly most boring spy in the history of the world. And—oh, nice. Subject, it seems, is _completely_ undressing. And Subject seems… _excited_ about something. Very nice.

 **7:45 PM:** Oh god. Subject isn’t sleeping, after all. Instead, Subject is lying on bed and… _touching himself_. Observer is caught between mortification and fascination. However, Observer convinces herself that he’s imagining some evil floozy. This greatly decreases any inappropriate thoughts Observer may be having about this situation.

 **7:47 PM:** “Oh… _Sydney_!”

Oh god. He’s thinking about _me_. Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god.

Er…pausing log while Observer figures out what to do about this… _unexpected_ turn of events…


	5. Chapter 5

Sydney gulped when Sark dropped his boxers. No matter how many times she saw him naked, she didn’t think she’d ever get used to it. And this time was different from her viewing in the shower that morning because, well, he was aroused. _Very_ aroused.

She’d felt the hard length of him while she’d tussled with his unconscious body on the sofa that afternoon, of course. But his clothes had obstructed her view then, and frankly she’d been more than a little concerned about escaping.

There was nothing to distract her now, though. Nothing to draw her eyes away from the length of his erection against the pale skin of his stomach. His fingers trailed lazily down – more of a promise than a stroke – and she followed the movement of his hand with baited breath.

 _Calm down, Bristow. It’s just Sark. So he’s pretty naked. You already knew that. Does it make him any hotter that he’s fantasizing about some floozy?_

The last thought was exactly what she needed to get her mind back on the game. She was pleased to note that her voice didn’t even waver when she made her log entry. _Sydney 1; Naked Sark 0._

He was lying back on the pillows now, his pale body framed by the royal blue sheets. He looked decadent like that, resting comfortably, his right hand stroking his hardened flesh toward inevitable climax. And, really, it was simple biology for a woman’s body to respond to the sight of an aroused man. If her panties were becoming uncomfortable once more, it was beyond her control. He was gorgeous, yes, but also a complete bastard, and she absolutely, positively did not want—

“Oh… _Sydney_!”

His words were like a sudden bolt that shot straight to her sex, electric sensation and pleasure. And, with them, her denial seemed to melt to nothing.

 _Oh god, I want him…_

She wasn’t sure how she managed to make her final log entry. All she knew was that, whatever was happening to her, she did _not_ want it recorded. Her fingers fumbled for the off switch and finally got it on the third try.

Which left her alone with Sark.

She cast a nervous glance over to the door of the surveillance van and then quickly fastened the bolt. Sark didn’t need anyone else seeing him like this. She didn’t even consider for a second that he’d mind _her_ seeing this. After all, it was for her, wasn’t it?

“Mmm… You’re amazing…” Sark was still moaning in pleasure on the bed.

She gulped as she watched his hand pump slowly up and down his length. The fact that he was imagining _her_ hand doing the stroking only made the experience that much more intense. Almost like a phantom echo, her fingers remembered holding him that afternoon, remembered the firmness of him, the way he fit perfectly into her palm, even through the napkins she’d used to try to deny her little shame.

Her imagination was more than able to provide the rest. Soft, slick skin. Heat and need. The trembling of his body and the feel of his blood pumping through his veins.

She felt something clench deep inside her at the thought of openly touching him in such a way. No pretenses, no cameras, drugs, or disguises. Just the two of them fulfilling what was quite obviously a mutual desire. Hoping to placate the uncomfortable feeling at her body’s center, she crossed her legs, wincing slightly as her wet panties clung to her in all the wrong ways.

 _Breathe, Bristow, breathe._ It was good advice, because the air was hitching almost painfully in her lungs. She let out a gasp she hadn’t even realized she was holding in when Sark’s free hand lowered to fondle his balls. _Oh god, oh god, oh god…_

She focused on her breath, counted each intake of air slowly and rhythmically, forced herself not to even consider the fact that the tempo she was choosing was the one he was using at that moment. It was slow for now. Sark obviously wanted to draw out his pleasure.

The slow breathing helped, especially when it came to drawing the blood back to her brain instead of her nether regions. It allowed her to focus as well as she possibly could, given that Sark was giving himself quite the hand-job on the screen before her.

 _Just breathe…_

All right. So, when she thought about it, this wasn’t such a big deal, really. So she was attracted to him in some ways. She could admit that. But in all the important ways – for example, the ‘I don’t date psychopathic assassins’ ways – he was completely out of the question. There were two components here: Sark’s mind and body. The former was supposed to revolt her; the latter was – _Ooh, do that again!_ – quite nice. She was trained to compartmentalize, so this wasn’t so difficult. And there was no way she was admitting even to herself what the ‘this’ she was secretly considering was.

 _Nice, slow breaths._

So Sark, with his gorgeous blue eyes and ruffled blond curls and lean pale body and thick long— _Focus!_ So Sark, from this new sophisticated mindset she had entered, was really nothing more than a male body in this situation. A very pretty one. In a way, this was no different than watching a porn video.

 _Except you know the guy, hate him, and he’s screaming out your name!_

OK, she’d have to work on ignoring that part of her mind. Because she was all about the common sense right now. Absolutely.

So, if watching Sark was just like watching a porn video, then there was absolutely no reason she couldn’t enjoy herself. When she thought about it, she couldn’t exactly remember the last time she’d just taken something for herself. She’d given her life to the CIA and asked for precious little in return. Who could fault her for enjoying herself for a few moments here or there?

 _Besides_ , a very annoyed voice jumped in, _this will be twice today he’s gotten off on me. No way am I letting him get away with that without getting something in return._ Oh yes, it was high time Mister Sark repaid his debt to her.

Her first touch was almost innocent. One could even mistake it for accidental. The merest flick of her thumb against her nipple through the red dress she hadn’t had time to switch out of.

The gasp that escaped her mouth was more than anything she could have anticipated. It felt as though that simple touch had lit her veins with fire, heightening the sensation in every nerve ending. She felt the loss of touch almost immediately, felt compelled to do it again…

“Mmm…”

She wasn’t quite sure whether the sound came from her lips or Sark’s, but in her mind at that moment, it made no difference. It wasn’t so hard to close the distance between them. To imagine that it was _his_ hand touching her, kneading the flesh of her breast with slow, relentless movements. To feel him circle her nipple hesitantly, almost reverently, drawing out her moment of satisfaction until she was almost ready to scream…

“Do it already, you bastard!”

Oh, right. It was just her.

The realization brought her back into reality for a moment, allowed her to lock her eyes on the man on the screen. He’d bitten his lower lip now, trying in vain to hold in his moans. The thrusts into his fist had turned stronger now, more desperate. She could see herself riding him, his cock burying itself deep inside her, over and over and over…

Her right hand had ventured between her legs almost of its own accord. Her clit was swollen and aroused, and she flicked it through the satin of her panties.

“Oh _god_!”

It actually all reminded her of something, this lack of control, the urges swirling up within her. Back in college, she’d worked as a waitress to make some extra spending money. The job had been grueling and, ironically, she often hadn’t had time to eat all day. So, when the end of the long day came around – a day of nothing but watching other people savor food, the one thing she craved – when she finally settled down to feed her own appetites… The simple experience of eating dinner had been almost orgasmic, no matter how plain the burger and fries were.

This was no different. She’d spent the entire day watching sex incarnate before her, being a good girl and doing her job. But now that she was finally taking some of that sex for herself… It made every sensation more vivid, more intense. Almost painful for how badly she needed it.

Whatever resistance she had left faded with that first explosion of ecstasy from her clit. After that, it was almost instinctual to shimmy out of her panties, praising her short skirt as a divinity the entire time, leaving herself bare to the pleasure that was now consuming her.

The sensations on her clit were almost too sharp at that moment, so her fingers ventured lower, found her entrance wet to the touch. In ready anticipation of his touch.

For a moment, the insane notion flitted through her mind to screw this surveillance, the mission, and her own doubts and just charge her way into that bedroom and take what she wanted. It was almost sad that the only thing that really stopped her was that she couldn’t bear to miss a minute of the lovely show he was putting on for her.

Only one finger dipped inside her at first, coinciding with his thrusts on the bed. She watched him, could imagine that smug little smile he’d get on his face the first time he entered her. It infuriated her and impassioned her all at once. She thrust her finger in hard, then two. She would grind herself down onto him, shut up whatever smart remark he’d been about to make and make him moan all at once.

On screen, Sark’s own moan echoed her thoughts as if he were envisioning the exact same scenario. His free hand ran slowly up his stomach, caressing his chest muscles casually before tracing the outline of one flat, dusky nipple sensuously.

Sydney’s own hand mirrored his motions on her body. Yes, she’d touch him just like that, savor the feel of quivering flesh beneath her fingertips. He’d returned the favor, not to be outdone, but then she’d twist his nipple just _so_ , and his hands would fall away from her as sensation overtook him.

She dropped her hand, used it to stroke lazy circles on the crimson silk over her belly as her fingers thrust rapidly inside her now. She hadn’t consciously been aware that his pace had been increasing, but now it was frantic. The slow, steady breaths that had kept her cool only a few minutes before were now sharp and gasping.

She listened closely and could hear his own pants exhaling in time with hers over the listening device. He sounded wild, out of control in a way she’d never truly imagined Sark could be.

The thought sent thrills up and down her spine. She inserted a third finger, rocked into it slowly before she expanded to accommodate it. Not as long and thick as he was, but still more than enough to keep up the illusion.

She could practically _feel_ him beneath her, his lean hips between her thighs, his body shuddering slightly as he fought off his climax. He was so vulnerable beneath her, needy, lost…all sorts of words she never associated with Sark. And it was all in _her_ power to do this to him. She could have that gorgeous body anytime, any way, she wanted him.

“Mine… All mine…”

“Oh, Sydney…” His voice was barely a hoarse whisper now, rough with impending orgasm.

“Wait for me,” she whispered back. “Just a little bit longer…”

“Sydney, _yes_!” He came, shot his pleasure onto his stomach, his entire body tensing and going lax all at once. He finally released his lower lip when he let go, and his face twisted with agony and ecstasy, and – dammit – he was even _more_ beautiful than usual.

Sydney let out an outraged little exclamation that he hadn’t obeyed her request…before belatedly realizing that, of course, he couldn’t hear her. A little whimper escaped her lips when she thought of close she was, but he was already cleaning up and moving on.

Fortunately, Sydney had always excelled at coming up with spur-of-the-moment solutions to any problem.

“Oh no, you don’t, you bastard,” she hissed angrily. And somehow her anger at his insufferable little ass made her even _hotter_ for him. “You’re not leaving me high and dry. Not _this_ time.”

Her free hand found the rewind, hit it, and turned back time a few minutes. This time, she’d work it out just _right_ …

She found the soft bundle of nerves inside of her, pounded it rhythmically with the pads of her fingertips in time with Sark’s final frantic thrusts. Her other hand – _his_ hand, in her mind’s eye – came up to stroke her clit. The sudden twin sensations struck her both at once, and she came with a cry which she would later insist was absolutely “Arrrrr!” No ‘S’ at the beginning or ‘K’ at the end at all. No way, no how.

For a few moments that seemed to stretch on for eternity, it felt as though her entire body was reduced to its core of pleasure. Waves of ecstasy overwhelmed her, drowned her, sparks overcoming her vision before everything faded to black…

“O-Oh god…” she moaned, coming to her senses once more to find herself slumped back in her chair in the surveillance van. Her hand had gone limp and was resting casually on her inner thigh. Her eyes turned lazily to the screen where Sark was still thrusting away.

“Oh, Sydney…”

She smiled wickedly, much more content with this situation. “ _Now_ , you can come,” she informed him magnanimously.

He did so with a raspy roar of her name, and she gulped at the sight of him in orgasm once more. He was simply _incredible_ like that…

She sighed, watching him fall limp back onto the mattress in the aftermath. Sark, all soft and pliant beneath her. “Mmm…”

A deep feeling of satisfaction settled into her bones, and she felt almost as though she’d turned to some sort of liquid. She giggled at the thought of her dripping out of the chair and onto the floor. Her hand came up to cover her giggle, almost in disbelief. Giggling wasn’t really something she did anymore. But, then, after _that_ orgasm, who could blame her? Especially since it had been so very long since she’d last let herself go like that. Work had consumed so very much lately, including – or at least she’d thought so – her sex-drive…

“Sark…” she mumbled happily.

And there was no real way of denying that she’d clearly said his name that time, but at the moment she could care less. Sydney Bristow had firmly entered kittenish mode, brought on by what was probably technically an overdose of pleasure, and all she wanted right then was a nice soft mattress, some pillows, and a warm male body to curl up against. It didn’t even matter if that body happened to be Sark’s. And, in fact, in one brief moment of honesty she could admit that maybe, just maybe, she’d actually _prefer_ that it be Sark. Just this once.

Slowly, reality reasserted itself, and while she continued to feel quite pleasantly boneless, she could admit to herself that, lamentably, sneaking into bed with Sark would at this point in time be thoroughly impossible. She did have obligations to both the FBI and the CIA, after all, even though it had been fun taking a moment back from the both of them.

One hand lazily reached up for the controls on the monitor, fast-forwarding to the present time, while she reactivated her log. She took one brief moment to remove the post-coital satisfaction from her voice, before speaking…

***

 **8:21 PM:** Ahem. Cameras reactivated now that Subject has finished with his evening entertainment. Surveillance feed to bedroom comes up empty. Although he _does_ appear to have made the bed prior to heading into the bathroom to clean up. Is anyone else surprised by this? I didn’t think so. Apparently, Subject isn’t much of a cuddler. Not that Observer wanted him to be or anything. Gorgeous bastard.

 **8:23 PM:** Finally got the stupid bathroom camera on. Shower is running. Observer waits for what will, inevitably, be another twenty-minute wait.

 **8:31 PM:** Observer considers Subject’s bathroom. Subject has a damn nice bathroom. Observer is jealous. Especially of that big tub. Just perfect for long, relaxing baths…mmm…

 **8:36 PM:** Observer begins to grow envious of Subject’s shower time. Observer admits that a shower would feel really good right now. A shower and a nice, long nap…

 **8:42 PM:** OK, Observer’s finally bored enough to turn the shower camera on and— Wait a minute! What the _fuck_? Subject is not in shower! Shower has been left empty with the water running and— Shit! Shit, shit, shit!

 **8:44 PM:** Fucking _bastard_! Observer has checked every camera in Subject’s residence. Subject is _gone_! He fucking _used_ me, the rat! That fucking, arrogant, uptight, little bastard! When I get my hands on that scrawny little throat of his, I’ll— What the…? Fuck! Something’s blocking the door to the surveillance van. I’m trapped inside! That little _weasel_! That’s it. He’s dead. Dead, dead, dead… _fuck_! I take it all back. Sark is easily the most infuriating, insufferable, revolting, horrible human being in all of existence, and when I track him down, I’m going to _kill_ him. Post-coital bliss, my _ass_!


	6. Chapter 6

**8:46 PM:**

“Uh…Observer to Tambourine?”

“Tambourine here. What’s up, Observer?”

“Can I ask you a really big favor?”

“Uh-oh… This isn’t going to be good, is it?”

“Are really big favors ever good?”

“That was my thought.”

“So… Could you possibly come to the surveillance van and remove the metal bar that’s holding the doors closed?”

“Metal bar?”

“It’s wedged between the outside handles. I can only get the door open about three inches.”

“Uh… Why, exactly, is there a metal bar locking you in?”

“The current theory is that our little rat-bastard of a Subject used it to lock me in.”

“ _What_? Wait, how did he know that you were…? I mean…”

“Look, I have no idea. But he’s not on any of the cameras. Can you deploy the rest of the team to search for him?”

“He got _away_?”

“Would saying I’m sorry help?”

“Oh boy… All right, I’m coming to bust you out.”

“Thanks, Jim. You’re a real sweetheart.”

***

Sydney and Agent Evans burst through the front door only minutes later, guns poised and at the ready. “I’ve got the back rooms; you take the front,” she instructed.

“Copy,” he agreed, heading into the kitchen.

Sydney turned away from him and made her way through the living room. She couldn’t do anything but scowl at the couch that she’d enjoyed herself on so recently. Bastard just took and took and then ran out on her…

She checked the hall closet just to be thorough, not that thoroughness now would make up for her horribly grievous error of letting him out of her sight even for a minute. It was empty, of course. Which led her down the corridor to the bedroom. Funny how such a short hallway could seem to go on forever when she knew that at the end would be the scene of the crime, so to speak.

She took a slow, deep breath and pushed the bedroom door open.

Empty, empty, empty.

He was really and truly gone. A quick check in the bathroom only confirmed this. Ruefully, she turned off the water.

Returning to the bedroom, she saw that the window was open. She stuck her head out, but the ground beneath was hard and would leave no footprints. Not that Sark ever would’ve been sloppy enough to leave any sign. He’d planned his escape perfectly, of course. None of the Ground Team had direct visual on this window. It was right in view of the surveillance camera but, of course, she hadn’t been using that camera at the time. _Damn, damn, damn…_

She proceeded over to the bed – _Heaven forbid he should run away without making the bed one last time…_ – and checked the holster there. Yup, he’d taken his precious .38 with him.

“Nothing. Looks like your boyfriend split.”

Sydney nearly jumped at the sound of Evans’ voice. “He went out the window,” she provided lamely.

It didn’t take Evans long to put two and two together. “How’d he get you to turn off the camera?”

She couldn’t help herself from blushing.

Evans whistled. “Smart.”

“Yeah,” she agreed sullenly, “real smart.”

“That’s a keeper you’ve found yourself,” he teased.

“How can you be joking?” she snapped. “When our superiors find out…”

“I’m hoping if I keep up my current hysteria, I won’t have to think about that.”

She considered that for a moment. “Point. Joke away.”

He smiled. “Did you check the gun safe?”

She shook her head, gaze flicking about the room, suddenly possessed with the nagging thought that she’d missed something.

“Right. I’m on it, then.”

She watched him open the safe, still scanning room. And then, inevitably, her eyes were drawn to the camera above the dresser. And her face turned white.

Because there, tacked neatly to the wall where the camera couldn’t possibly see it, was a white envelope.

Evans’ back was still to her, and she crossed the room quickly, snatching the envelope up. On the front, in precise handwriting were the words ‘To my dearest Agent Bristow’. She ground her teeth in annoyance.

Casting a furtive glance over her shoulder to make sure Evans was still preoccupied, she tore open the letter. One deep breath to steel herself up, and she began to read:

 

‘Sweet Sydney,

‘My apologies for my abrupt departure. I can assure you my business with Mister Haldek is of the utmost importance, or else I would never have cut our lovely evening together so short. I promise to make it up to you at a latter date. Perhaps next time we could share dinner without the acacia bush between us, even. Be sure to wear the red again. And I just wanted to assure you that everything I said about spending the evening with the woman of my dreams was true. I can only hope it was as good for you as it was for me. Next time I’ll be certain to return the favor in full.

‘Yours until our inevitable reunion,

‘S.’

 

Sydney’s eyes narrowed at the self-satisfied ‘S’ at the end of the letter. Who the hell did he think he _was_ anyway? ‘Share dinner’, ‘woman of my dreams’, ‘as good for you as it was for me’, ‘return the favor’… Gah! “Cocky little asshole…” she grumbled under her breath.

“Damn.” Evans sighed. “Looks like he cleared out his weapons cache.”

“Hmm?” Sydney turned to look at him.

“Only two of the bags are gone. He must’ve moved everything into those.”

She sighed. “He must have done it after target practice this morning.” Which, of course, meant that he’d known she was watching him even then. Double damn.

“What’d you find?”

She belatedly realized that she was holding the letter where he could see it. Triple damn. “We got a good-bye letter.” She waved it unenthusiastically before glancing at it again, reading the postscript for the first time.

 

‘P.S. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t presume to make such a mundane comment. It occurs to me, however, that the events of this evening may have inspired one of your rather charming rages. Should that be the case, I’ll hope you’ll note that I’ve left another, more appropriate farewell letter for your FBI friends.’

 

Turning back, seemingly to glance at the camera, she tucked the top note into her pocket to find that, indeed, there was another sheet of paper beneath it in that same impeccable handwriting.

“This is gonna be bad, isn’t it?”

Sydney handed Evans the second letter. “I’m going to murder him,” she concluded, removing the camera from the nook in the woodwork with a sigh. A part of her was relieved that he wouldn’t to able to read some of the more outlandish insinuations in Sark’s letter to her. Another part couldn’t help but feel guilty for keeping this little secret. It felt almost like hiding a secret love letter, and right now the very notion made Sydney’s skin crawl. Or, at least, it _should’ve_ made her skin crawl…

“Oh joy, who’s up for some sarcasm?” Evans asked unenthusiastically.

Sydney grimaced.

He read aloud anyway, however, affecting a snooty British accent that she couldn’t help but laugh at. “‘Dear Agents Bristow, Evans, Carter, and the fourth unknown driving the red Ford Escort with license plate 2LSJ437…’ Bastard, how’d he spot us all?”

She just shook her head.

“‘I’ve known for some days now that the FBI and CIA were following my movements, and I was more than happy to enjoy the game. However, as my business with Mister Haldek presses ever closer, I’m afraid I must back out at this time. I regret that I must do so when Agent Bristow, for whom I have nothing but the utmost respect and admiration, is heading the surveillance on me, but I was left with no other option. I do hope both the FBI and CIA will take my words into consideration when choosing whether or not to issue a reprimand. Truly, it was beyond any agent’s capabilities to follow me at this time.’” Evans snorted. “He doesn’t think _too_ highly of himself, now does he?”

“Smug jerk.”

“But, hey, he thinks highly of you. Do I smell love in the air?”

“Shut up, _Tambourine_ ,” she scowled.

He blew her a joking kiss and read on. “‘I find it heartening to see such a delightful example of interagency cooperation, and I strongly encourage you all to continue this practice. In so doing, you can only serve to overcome your numerous bureaucratic inadequacies and incompetence. I cannot help but look forward to a time when entry into the United States would actually present some challenge to my abilities.’ OK, that’s it. I’m gonna kill the guy…” Evans grumbled.

Sydney, however, was fighting back a secretive smile. OK, so yes, Sark was behaving like a complete and utter dick. In fact, he seemed to be laying it on a little _too_ thick. Almost like he _wanted_ to deflect the anger that the big brass would have for the surveillance team onto his own head. Which, actually, was kind of a sweet gesture…in a completely assholic Sark way.

Not to mention, his insults to the CIA and FBI _were_ kind of funny…

“‘Again, my sincerest apologies,’” Evans finished reading the letter. “ ‘I can only hope my invitation to a future game, when I am less busy, will be accepted in the spirit with which it was offered. S.’”

Sydney bit her lip at that, minding racing at those words. Only one thing popped to mind that could possibly be considered an ‘invitation’… She had the feeling she’d be seeing Sark again very soon indeed, if a certain dig in China was any clue.

Slowly, she smiled to herself. And not even she was sure whether it was because she wanted him or just plain wanted to kill him. Either way, it was sure to be a memorable trip…

Evans just rolled his eyes and dropped the letter onto the bed. “You know, there’s a certain level of annoyingness that can only be conveyed through letters,” he pointed out. “What an ass.”

And Sydney sighed wistfully. “What an ass, indeed…”


End file.
